lhardy as to
throw away men like that. They will be more useful to Joffre later."

It was the word "comic" that did for me. There was no sign in the fresh
young face before me that the horror had left a mark. If the thought
came to him that every one of those tens of thousands whose bodies
dammed and reddened the flood was dear to some one weeping in Germany,
his eyes gave no sign of it. Perhaps it was as well for the time being.
Who knows?

I felt the same revolt against the effect of war when he told me of the
taking and losing of Charleroi and set it down as the most "grotesque"
sight he had ever seen. "Grotesque" simply made me shudder, when he
went on to say that even there, in the narrow streets, the Germans
pushed on in "close order," and that the French mitrailleuses, which
swept the street that he saw, made such havoc in their ranks that the
air was so full of flying heads and arms and legs, of boots, and
helmets, swords, and guns that it did not seem as if it could be
real--"it looked like some burlesque"; and that even one of the gunners
turned ill and said to his commander, who stood beside him: "For the
love of God, colonel, shall I go on?" and the colonel, with folded arms,
replied: "Fire away."

Perhaps it is lucky, since war is, that men can be like that. When they
cannot, what then? But it was too terrible for me, and I changed the
subject by asking him if it were true that the Germans deliberately
fired on the Red Cross. He instantly became grave and prudent.

"Oh, well," he said, "I would not like to go on oath. We have had our
field ambulance destroyed. But you know the Germans are often bad
marksmen. They've got an awful lot of ammunition. They fire it all
over the place. They are bound to hit something. If we screen our
hospital behind a building and a shell comes over and blows us up, how
can we swear the shell was aimed at us?"

Just here the regiment came over the hill, and I retreated inside the
gate where I had pails of water ready for them to drink. They were a
sorry-looking lot. It was a hot day. They were covered with dirt, and
you know the ill-fitting uniform of the French common soldier would
disfigure into trampdom the best-looking man in the world.

The barricade was still across the road. With their packs on their
backs, their tin dippers in their hands for the drink they so needed,
perspiring in their heavy coats, they crawled, line after line, under
the barrie